Strontium-90

by Vaughn Heppner

  “What’s first?” the imp asked.

  “I want Lieutenant Kantaro Murakawa,” I said.

  “Alive?”

  “I want him on 21 February 1945,” I said.

  The imp sneered. “Do you happen to know where he can be found?”

  “The spirit of Bushido told me,” I said. “He’s in Mitate number 2, which in his time consisted of thirty-two kamikaze planes at their base in Katori. You’ll find the lieutenant leading the bombers in an early morning attack off the island of Iwo Jima.”

  “You’ve done your research,” the imp said, sounding impressed.

  I shrugged, and he had to clutch my hair to keep from pitching off.

  He gave me a level stare before he said, “Better start walking.”

  I did. As the imp had implied, it was a long walk. Striding through the swirling, muggy and seemingly endless Corridor gave me claustrophobia, and a hard sense of doom, my own. Ghost images appeared. I think they were of my past lives or maybe lost relatives. One ghost lifted a hand minus three fingers. That chilled me, especially because the imp laughed. Like the others, however, this ghost disappeared as I neared.

  After a vast stretch of loneliness, the imp said, “Slow down. We’re nearing your kamikaze.”

  I grunted and slowed.

  The imp cracked his knuckles, and he graced me with his wit. “Maybe the lieutenant won’t want to come along.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m ready for that.”

  “You’ve got me interested now,” the imp said.

  “That surprises me,” I said.

  He chuckled nastily. “This is getting better and better.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That you’ve woefully misjudged my original concern. I’m not worried. It’s the opposite. I’m anxious to watch the kamikaze carve out your heart. That you so badly misjudged my concern makes me even more certain that you have no idea what you’re doing—and that always makes things interesting.”

  More limbo-like cloud flooring passed beneath my boots as I strode back in Time. The imp was a wit, the worst type of guide in these situations.

  “We’re almost there,” he said.

  I glanced at him sidelong, noticed the huge grin.

  “Say…” he ticked off his little fingers. “Three more steps.” Three more it was. “Stop,” he said. “Now lean toward the left-hand wall. Far enough,” he shouted in my ear.”

  He leaned out, his horny heels pressed against my chest and his arm outstretched. He inserted the key into the cloud-wall and twisted. The lock groaned. Then a window-sized section of cloud cleared away.

  I looked out. Far below, I saw a World War II American Fleet. Tiny white wakes trailed toy-sized ships.

  “Lieutenant Murakawa is eye-level,” the imp growled.

  I heard the drone of Japanese bombers before I spotted them. They began to pass my ghostly window. The lead planes slowly dove down toward the American ships. They flew so near I could have reached out and touched their wingtips. Then Murakawa’s bomber flew past. I recognized him. His nearest wing-flap jerked upward as the engine loudly whined. The Rising Sun red circle painted on the peeling side brightly reflected the morning sunlight. I chanted a spell. In an eye-blink, the pilot no longer sat in his cockpit, but stood staring at me. He was a stocky, brown-clad youth with a red-dotted handkerchief tightly tied over his sweating forehead. He wore a samurai sword at his side.

  “Lieutenant Murakawa!” I barked harshly in his tongue, with an illusion over me so I looked like a senior Japanese officer. “Do you willing serve the Emperor?”

  He stood straighter and snapped his open mouth shut.

  “Good!” I shouted. “You will march with me and ask no questions. We go to fight for the victory of Japan! Agree or disagree now.” If he said yes, I’d have him, even if I’d bent the truth.

  “Yes, sir,” he barked.

  I grinned. “Let’s go then.”

  Murakawa marched in step behind me. I cast another spell, this one directly on him. It was only possible because of his ‘yes’ answer. I hadn’t expected any problems with Murakawa. I’d picked him because he was the most fanatical soldier in history.

  “Quite a speech,” the imp said.

  The less I told him the better.

  “What’s next?” the imp finally asked.

  “I want Daniel Boone of Kentucky fame. You’ll find him in Chief Blackfish’s camp just north of the Ohio River in 1778.”

  “It will take longer getting there than it did here,” the imp said.

  I walked a long time, in places staggering in a stupor. The imp finally alerted me and inserted his key, and the lock creaked as if rusted.

  Tall Daniel Boone sighted down his famed Kentucky rifle Tick-Licker. Around him stood or crouched various Shawnee braves of Chief Blackfish’s village. It was a shooting contest and Boone, naturally, was winning.

  I chanted my spell just as Boone shot the bulls-eye. When he stood before me, he glanced around in astonishment.

  Through the ghostly window, I pointed out the just as astonished Shawnee braves.

  “You’ve been trying to escape their village for some time,” I said.

  Boone gave me a level gaze.

  “You’ve heard of Kokumthena?” I asked.

  “Are you calling me a pagan?” Boone asked.

  Kokumthena was the Shawnee creator god, a woman. She was a gray-haired old lady who ended the world when it was time.

  “By fighting at my side,” I said, “you’ll help Chief Blackfish. He’ll be told that you’re helping Kokumthena.”

  Boone shrugged, although through the window he carefully studied the braves shouting and arm waving at each other.

  “I can send you back,” I said.

  He rubbed his jaw as he glanced at me sidelong.

  “Or you can agree to help me,” I said.

  “I’ll help,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Then follow behind the Japanese,” I said. As Boone turned, I cast the second spell. He’d said yes, so he was mine now for the duration.

  As we began marching, the imp said, “Fight at your side. Was that another lie?”

  “You know the rules,” I said.

  The imp’s slanted eyes narrowed. He stroked his tiny chin and finally shrugged. “What’s next?”

  “I want Genghis Khan, birth name: Temujin, born to the Yakka Mongols. I want him the year of the Mouse in the cycle of the Twelve Beasts, Christian Reckoning 1227 A.D. The day he lies dying.”

  “THE Genghis Khan?” the imp asked.

  “You are a bright fellow,” I said.

  “It comes to my mind that you’re gathering the best in…” the imp trailed off, studying me intently.

  “Think what you like,” I said.

  “Don’t you want Alexander of Macedon instead of Genghis Khan?”

  “Are you hard of hearing?” I asked.

  The imp regarded me. “It’s a long walk.”

  I began walking with Lieutenant Murakawa following and behind him Daniel Boone. The imp had a point concerning Alexander. A tengri of the upper air from ancient Mongolia had hotly argued against the spirit of Zeus. The tengri said Genghis Khan was the greatest conqueror. The spirit of Zeus had said it was Alexander the Great. I’d decided on the size of area conquered. Alexander had marched hundreds and even thousands of miles. Genghis Khan has ridden degrees of longitude across the world. Besides, after his death, Genghis Khan’s empire had grown. Alexander’s had shattered into pieces.

  The walk seemed to take forever. I jogged, grew tired and then moody. In some ways, I felt like a jailor unleashing dangerous inmates from Time. The endless Corridor never changed. The walk wearied me. Not only did I drive myself, but I also drove the wills of Murakawa and Boone. Much as I wished to use a spell to ease the journey, I knew I’d need the manna later.

  We finally arrived at the next destination and soon old Genghis Khan stood scowling before me. He
had a seamed old face with whitish-tan skin. His eyes were gray-blue, and unlike many of his portraits, the eyes were occidental. Long, brown-streaked, gray hair fell in braids to his stiff back, while a long mustache flecked with gray drooped past his chin. He was short and slim, with high shoulders, and he held himself arrogantly. Genghis Khan would be hard to dupe.

  “You’re Temujin?” I asked.

  He nodded, remained silent and eyed me closely.

  “You are a bogdo.” In Mongolian that meant ‘sending of the gods.’ It was a way of telling him he was unique among men. “I have an enemy that needs conquering,” I said. “I need your skills.”

  Again, he nodded, as if that was as it should be.

  “Will you help me?” I asked.

  His never changing, distrustful gaze wandered to the Japanese kamikaze and the American frontiersman. He studied the imp on my shoulder. If I spoke again, it would make him more suspicious. Perhaps Alexander would have been better. I could have appealed to his sense of adventure.

  “If I say no?” he asked.

  “Then earth demons will attack your empire and your sons will lose everything you conquered.”

  He nodded as if confirming his suspicions. “I will help.”

  “You will help?” I needed him to say yes.

  He nodded again.

  I decided to gamble. “You must say yes.”

  Genghis Khan’s gaze narrowed. Tense moments passed. Finally, he grunted, “Yes.”

  Good, I had him. Quickly, I cast my spell and he quietly went in line behind Boone.

  “Your comments intrigue,” the imp said.

  “Oh, I’m so pleased you approve,” I said in a breathless voice.

  The imp seemed on the verge of sulking, and asked in a sullen tone, “What’s next?”

  “The last one,” I said. “I want Flamma Vulpus. He’s a Thracian gladiator fighting in Rome during the first year of Emperor Nero’s bloody reign.”

  “Rome?” the imp asked.

  “Ancient Rome,” I said.

  “Better start walking,” the imp said.

  Ages passed, an eon of clouds. Then slim-hipped Flamma Vulpus stood before me in cuirass and with a sheathed short sword—the flamed gladius. Vulpus was the greatest swordsman in human history, a cunning, ruthless beast. He said yes.

  “Now what?” the imp asked.

  I glanced at my troop of warriors: Lieutenant Kantaro Murakawa, the fanatic, Daniel Boone, the crack shot, Genghis Khan, the conqueror and Flamma Vulpus, the swordsman. Then there was me, Ted Nordstrom, the magician, human history’s greatest.

  “Can you guess?” I asked the imp.

  “It’s hard deducing the thoughts of a madman.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “I want to go to Eden, just as Adam and Eve are driven out.”

  “Eden?” the imp squeaked.

  “I knew you’d approve.”

  “Is that wise?” the imp asked.

  “The tome I read said you’re fearless.”

  His fiery eyes narrowed.

  “Good then,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  “You hardly need me,” the imp said. “Go until you come to the end of the Corridor. Turn right and insert the key.” He held it out for me to take.

  I shook my head.

  He muttered something obscene and we finally began.

  To get there I used the energy spell I’d been saving. Even so, the walk seemed like eternity. We halted before reaching the very end—or beginning—and a queer feeling roiled in my gut. Just like the rest of the Corridor, the start was a haze of churning smoke, only that smoke was white. I was frightened, which surprised me.

  The imp said, “I admire your fortitude, mortal. And I admit that you’re a great magician, better than Merlin. But don’t you think you’ve done enough? I don’t like it here. Let’s go back and call it a day.”

  “Listen closely, imp. I want you to open a door so I and my troop can go out—” he groaned “—and then you’ll wait here until we’re finished.”

  “Or you’re finished,” he said.

  I hated him for his words.

  “Are you after a bite from the Tree of Life?” he asked.

  “Nothing so crass,” I said. “Open the way just before the second Horseman of the Apocalypse rides onto Earth.”

  He laughed shrilly. “You’re a sucker, magician.”

  My guts chilled, but I knew what I was doing. I could have asked him why the laugh, but I didn’t want to pay the cost for his answer. You fight fire with fire. I planned to fight war with war.

  “Just do as I ask,” I said.

  “Two more steps,” he said. Two more it was.

  While on my shoulder, the imp leaned forward and inserted the sky. The lock proved soundless this time. A section of Corridor faded away into the most tropical and luscious forest I’d ever seen. A gorgeous, rainbow-colored cockatoo gaily sang on top of a palm tree. The sun hung at mid-morning. Far to the left, two fur-clad humans slunk away. Behind them, a mass of leafy fronds shifted and I caught the glimmer of a flaming sword.

  I stepped onto a soft meadow, with my troop following. The imp sat at the bottom of the opening—an inch above the ground—kicking his warty legs.

  “Better hurry,” he shouted.

  I removed my crystal pendant and set it on the ground. Then I summoned my four and had them surround it. Murakawa, Boone, Genghis and Vulpus sat facing each other. I chanted the most potent spell I’d ever used without the Book of Veils in hand. The four disappeared, as did the crystal. They and it were now in me and I was in them. I stood taller and stronger, with gleaming silver armor from head to foot. I gripped a huge silver sword and felt godlike.

  Horse hooves clopped. I turned and glimpsed a shining rider on a white horse. He ignored me as he galloped into history. Swiftly, I strode toward where he’d ridden.

  With the cunning of Genghis Khan, my boots crushed blue and red flowers, signaling my presence. Soon I heard the clop of another, heavier horse. Galloping down from Heaven moved a gigantic red horse and a massive red rider. In moments, the horse’s hooves thudded onto the soft ground. A flock of parrots bolted from swaying fronds. The red rider drew rein. He was a massive humanoid in plate and chainmail, with his helmet’s visor shut. His red spurs lay beside the great heaving flanks of the horse red as blood. Without a sound, the Second Rider of the Apocalypse, of War, drew a heavy greatsword and saluted me.

  I heard distant sounds—the clink of sword against spear, the noise of thudding axes tearing flesh and crunching bone, the sound of women wailing and babies screaming, the groans of the wounded and the gurgles of the dying. The great warhorse took a step toward me. As I cocked my silver helmeted head, I faintly heard the chattering rip of machine guns, the whoosh of flamethrowers, the whomp of mortar rounds hitting home and the dull roars of men marching to their doom.

  “This is a little awkward,” I said, “but I’m afraid you can’t pass.” I leveled my sword and that caused Flamma Vulpus in me to thrill at the fight. Boone wished for a rifle. Genghis calculated odds, while Murakawa gave me unlimited faith in victory.

  War rumbled a menacing, lion-like cough—his chuckle of mirth, I suppose. Swiftly yet ponderously, War clutched the warhorse’s red mane and clanked off the broad back. He stood taller and broader than I did, and he breathed audibly like a predatory killer. He clanked toward me, and suddenly this didn’t seem like such a good idea.

  Murakawa gave me fanatical faith, while Genghis considered us unbeatable. Vulpus eagerly awaited the first pass even as he anticipated War’s technique. Boone still wished for a good Kentucky rifle. I’d chosen my warriors wisely.

  “This isn’t personal,” I said, and I charged. Our swords clashed. The jar to my arm was bone crushing.

  For sixty heartbeats, we exchanged feints, lunges and lighting-quick parries. Vulpus used all of his considerable skills. Genghis finally took over and I retreated. My chest heaved with violent effort.

  War lowered his huge sword and waite
d. He nodded once in what I took as a compliment.

  Boone screamed silently for the necessity a rifle. I agreed and chanted a spell. Because of the nearness of Eden, I was unable to conjure a modern weapon. Instead, I cradled a cocked crossbow. I sheathed the silver sword and aimed at War. He, too, sheathed his sword, and he, too, held a crossbow, one much bigger than mine.

  Genghis threw me to the ground. Boone squinted and squeezed the trigger. It was a perfect shot, but War twisted to one side while he shot. My bolt smacked into his left shoulder, punctured with a screech of steel on steel. War’s bolt crunched through my helmet and cruelly jerked my head back as it entered my forehead. Boone screamed inside my skull and died. I yanked out the bolt.

  Vulpus sneered at the crossbow and I drew my sword, even as my ghastly head wound healed. Again, I charged. Ninety heartbeats passed in furious swordplay. Then, with a hard clank, War deflected my sword just enough. He thrust into my guts. Vulpus died silently as a gladiator should. I wrenched myself from War’s blade and Genghis made me sprint for the red horse. We’d fight on horseback like a true warrior and nomad should.

  War whistled sharply.

  The horse reared and shot its heavy hooves at me. Genghis was an expert horseman, however. I dodged the flashing hooves and rolled under the beast. The warhorse leaped clear, twisted unnaturally fast and kicked its hooves again. I went sailing, and I coughed up blood. Genghis Khan died, damning fate to have lost his last battle.

  Only Murakawa and I remained. My silver-armored form had shrunk to almost normal size. It was time to flee, I decided, but Murakawa would have none of that. We’d show War our contempt and throw ourselves on his sword. Terror filled me. I resisted. But once Murakawa had an idea, he saw it through.

  I charged War. He gutted me like a frog and lifted me upward. As Murakawa melted away, I slipped off the sword. I was just simple Ted Nostrum now. Smoke trickled out of the cracked crystal on my chest.

  War chuckled lion-like and lifted his visor. He had bloodshot eyes of monumental arrogance. Compared to War, Genghis had scowled like a jester. In an iron-cold voice that sounded of rasping swords, War said, “Only a fool thinks to defeat me through violence, but I enjoyed the fight. Now prepare to die.” He shut his visor with a snap and advanced in a remorseless clank.